


Different Way to See

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Broken Friendship, Complicated Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Soul-Searching, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Wilson is mad at House for the bus. And mad at himself, for being House's friend. But what will he see, when Amber tells him to get off the bus, and shows him a different point of view? One where House tried to be a good friend...and he didn't? Set end of season 4.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Different Way to See

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to the referenced TV show, House, and it's creators.

**Different Way To See**

Wilson sighed and collapsed onto his bed. He was exhausted.

He'd almost forgotten, in the past four months, what dealing with House was like. Particularly what dealing with House in one of his stubborn, defiant moods was like. What House could do, when he was determined to thwart people. How childish he could be, how cranky, how manipulative. How thoroughly difficult he was.

Still, he'd done what he had to do. He'd gotten House to the damn funeral and back. In spite of dropped keys, lost items, speeding tickets, being arrested, and all the other shenanigans House had pulled. He'd even brought him safely home, in spite of the appalling trick with the ear, their argument, and the several thousand dollars he was out for having broken the funeral home's stained glass window. In spite of all of it, he'd delivered House safely to his apartment, and called Cuddy to let her know that they were in safely.

He sighed again, kicked his shoes off and yanked half-heartedly at his tie to pull it over his head. The trip was over. Now he was free to forget about it, and get on with his life, his process of moving on, getting on with his life, and living without House.

House's words echoed in his head. About how fun it had been. About how he was trying to push him away to avoid risking losing him unexpectedly. He shoved them into the back of his mind. House was wrong. The whole thing had been a nuisance, nothing more. He was still trying to convince himself of that as he fell asleep.

*****DWtS*****

White. White light all around him. Wilson blinked. Everything was white, except him. He was still himself, still wearing the suit he'd had on when he crashed.

He blinked again, and this time, shapes resolved around him. He stared, hands going white knuckled as he clutched the seat in front of him.

He was on a bus.

He rarely ever got on one anyway, and never since Amber's death. And this... _why_ _was_ _the_ _bus_ _white?_ Usually they were done in shades of blue or gray, black or brown.

“Hey there.” Wilson stiffened at the voice, then turned to look at the seat beside him.

Amber was there, practically glowing in a vivid red suit. Her hair was pulled back in it's usual two clips, her eyes sparkling with humor, a warm smile on her face. The only oddity was that her feet were bare.

He swallowed hard, once or twice. “A-Amber?” He swallowed again. “I'm....dreaming. This...this isn't real?”

“Maybe.” Amber smiled at him. “It's probably a dream. But even if that's true, does that make it less real?” She leaned forward to pat his cheek. “Even if it's not real, there's no reason we can't enjoy it while it lasts, right?” 

“Amber...we're on a bus.” He felt his heart rate speed up. He'd had nightmares about the crash before. He rose from his seat, backing away. “No. No...I do not want to see this. I won't go through this again...” He could feel himself sweating, breathing fast.

“Relax. It isn't that kind of dream. Not yet, anyway.” She rose and moved forward to put a hand on his face. “Just relax.”

He felt himself calm down, but he still felt wary. “If...it's not that kind of dream, then why are we on the bus?”

Amber shrugged, smiling in that enigmatic way she'd had. “This is your bus. This is what you're following right now.”

He didn't understand, but he let it go. “So...you're on my bus because...I'm grieving for you? And this is some strange manifestation of my grief? Me 'working through my issues'?”

“Nope.” She shook her head, and dropped gracefully into a seat. Then she smiled at him. “I'm here to tell you to get off the bus.”

He stared at her. “Get off the bus?”

She nodded. “Get off the bus.” 

“By which you mean I need to do something different.” He sighed and sat down next to her. “I don't understand. I've been moving on. I go to grief counseling. I'm finding a new job away from all the memories. I've been...completely honest with my feelings. What should I be doing differently?” He threw his hands up in mild exasperation.

“Well...” Amber sat forward, draping her hands over the back of the seat in front of her. “You might want to stop being angry now.”

Wilson blinked. “Stop being....no. No. You can't be serious. You cannot be serious. This is about House?! Why?”

Amber pursed her lips. “Because...” She leaned forward to tilt her head and look him in the eyes. “Things aren't settled yet. Because...he was on the bus.”

“What?!” Wilson stared at her. “If House hadn't called, if he hadn't been drunk and acting like an idiot, like he always does, then you'd still be alive!”

“Maybe.” She folded her arms over the back of the seat and leaned against them, watching him. The same way she'd done when she was alive, in one of her playful, sleepy moods that had usually led to her taking him to bed, or slow lovemaking on the nearest horizontal surface. His heart seemed to trip. Then her gaze deepened, going from sleepy to that too-knowing look she'd always worn when they were near or discussing House. “But that isn't the whole story. That's not everything.”

“What else is there to consider? He was drunk. He was being an ass, calling me and refusing to go with you just because he didn't want to. He was an idiot, getting on the bus. He was being himself, a miserable...ass!” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He's always like that. He spreads misery. He's a misanthropic, miserable bastard and he never changes. And I'm through enabling him. That's it.”

“That might be true. But it's not everything.” She was still watching him. “You have to look at the whole picture.”

He took a deep breath, trying to reign in his emotions. Trying to look objectively. He thought back to what he'd told House before, before he'd left the hospital that last night. “If this is about blaming him for the accident...I don't. I know he wasn't driving. I know it's not unusual for him to call me. I know you chose to get on the bus. I know he couldn't have predicted what happened. I know he tried to save you. I understand all that. But that doesn't change who he is. Or what he  _ has _ done, the mistakes he's made. The type of person he is. And that's what I can't forgive.”

Amber smiled. “That's true. But the mistakes he's made don't change who he is either.”

Wilson stared at her. “What are you talking about?” He shook his head. “You can't be arguing that House is  _ not _ an ass. Or a bastard. Or misanthropic.”

“No. But it's still not the whole picture. No matter how much you and he believe it is.” She looked away, her fingers idly moving, interweaving and then coming undone, then back together.

Wilson sighed and gripped the seat in front of him, then leaned into his arms. His anger collapsed abruptly, leaving him feeling tired. “I don't understand.” He raised his head. “I don't understand why you're arguing for House.”

“Because...he got off the bus. Because this isn't everything. Because I owe him something.”

“What?! That's ridiculous! House was responsible for you being there.” A wave of anger rose inside him, at the idea that Amber, even in his own subconscious, might think she owed House something. “Maybe he didn't make you get on the bus, and maybe he didn't cause the crash, but his actions are still the reason you were there. The reason you...died.” He swallowed hard, suddenly trying hard not to cry.

Amber's hand touched his face, turned him gently to face her. The look in her eyes was warm, compassionate, gentle. “That's true. But his actions are also the reason I didn't die alone. Remember?”

Light swirled around them, and before he'd quite registered what had happened, he was standing on a bus. A different bus. A normal bus. Surrounded by people.

There was an odd tingling, and he jumped as another version of himself stepped forward. _ “House?” _

He remembered this scene. This event. They were on the bus, House trying to use a combination of re-enactment and Alzhimer drugs to jog his memory. He watched as House of his memory stopped his restless limping and popped a handful of pills into his mouth. Heard the words.  _ “What are those?” _

House's evasions. One of his team snatching the bottle and reading the label. Frantic and concerned exclamations from all around. His own question.  _ “How many of those did you take?” _

_ “You mean, how many just now, or how many did I take on the way here?” _ House, his usual idiocy, his usual disregard for his own life, or how much he scared everyone.

He heard the startled question, and House's calm reply.  _ “It's working.” _

He watched House moving restlessly, muttering to himself, as he and everyone else on the bus watched. (they were all doctors and nurses and he remembered that they'd still all been terrified, at the possible consequences of House's recklessness, particularly to the battered man who stood in their midst.)

He watched House shift and mutter, then abruptly collapse as his heart stopped. Watched as he, Cuddy, and House's team gathered, one of House's people assisting Cuddy with CPR because the angle was so awkward, too awkward for anything else. Watched as House gasped and revived.

Cuddy's exasperated admonition.  _ “Your heart stopped.” _

_ “It's Amber. Amber was on the bus with me.” _ Another gasp from House.  _ “She's the one who's dying.” _

His own denials, giving way to slow realization and growing panic as House asked him when he had last heard from Amber, and he realized it had been before the crash, when she'd called to tell him she was heading home, ask him if he wanted or needed anything. 

Thirteen reading the information of the Jane Doe she'd been representing. Then her question.  _ “Does Amber have a birthmark on her right hip?” _ Horrified understanding and sudden terrible fear on his memory self's face.

The scene shifted again, and he was standing next to Amber, the Amber who was with him, watching himself staring in grief-stricken shock at her unconscious body, hooked up to all the hospital monitors, listening as House and her attending physician argued.

Amber caught his hand as he started to gasp, fighting tears as the pain washed over him. In four months, the raw edges of seeing her like this had dulled, but the memory was in sharp focus, and it felt like he was doing it all over again. But Amber squeezed his hand, grounding him, comforting him. “Hey. That's not the important thing right now.”

Her voice startled him out of the moment, and he heard the doctor speak.  _ “You aren't her doctor. You can't make decisions about her care.” _

And House's reply.  _ “No. But...her husband can.” _

Wilson blinked, as he watched his memory double look up, pulling himself together and forcing himself to think. 

He'd known, of course, that House had persuaded the doctors to let him make the calls. He knew House had proceeded to treat him as 'patient family' and 'medical proxy'. He knew that it had led to some fairly violent arguments between House and his team.

But somehow, he'd never thought about the fact that House had called him Amber's husband.

It was a lie, not unusual for House. But it would have worked just as well to say he was Amber's brother, or Amber's cousin, or any other familial relationship. Not her father, perhaps, but...husband? It was the first time House had ever acknowledged their relationship in any form or fashion other than to mock it or try to interfere.

Another shift in scene, and he was inside the ambulance, watching himself and House riding with Amber, watching her heart stop, watching House snap at him, snarl at him, and all but bully him into productive action. Watched as his past self suggested the cooling, the protective hypothermia, to prolong Amber's life and House's chances of finding what was wrong. As House argued that it wasn't a solution, and he argued for it. Watched as House did what he asked.

A thought occurred to him. When did House ever do what he was asked, by a patient's family? It was one thing if a medical proxy or an underage patient's parents forbid a procedure, but this was different. Either House had thought it  _ was _ the best alternative, or he had been acting out of his normal behavior patterns. Granted, the man had been suffering from brain damage and had been, as he said, 'barely functional' but still...

The scene faded, and he and Amber were back on the white bus. Wilson leaned forward, putting his head in his hands.

He had told House that all House did was spread misery. Most of the time, he could argue that it was true. But...House also saved lives. He was a bastard, but he saved lives. And despite the fact that he was frequently rude and abrasive, if not outright cruel, sometimes he was also exactly what his patient needed. Not just in the medical sense, but in the personal sense as well.

He thought about the deformed boy whose life House had saved before his surgery. Thought about the girl who had been raped, and who House had talked through the worst of it. Thought about his own cancer patient, the little girl House had treated, and who had hugged him as she left. About the woman who had received a heart transplant because House had been willing to put his own career on the line and lie for her, to get her one.

He thought about House going with him to find Amber, helping him with her in the ambulance. Trying to restart her heart, then trying to cool her down into protective hypothermia. House, with his brain injury, the bleeds he'd already had, the heart attack he'd suffered only a few hours prior. He'd already been knocked unconscious by swelling and bleeding in his brain and sent home twice. The whole race to find Amber and find out what was killing her had been a staggering balance between life and death for him, or the risk of becoming permanently and irrevocably brain-damaged.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat back. Amber was watching him patiently. “You're starting to see the bigger picture.”

“Maybe.” He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. “All right. Say...I admit that House has occasionally done things that might qualify as decent. Good even. Say I admit that he was...kind, that he was being a decent human being when he helped find you. So what? Don't get me wrong. I'm...grateful, that he helped us locate you.” And he was, now that he was thinking about it, and not the crash.

He swallowed. “I'm grateful that he tried to save you. I appreciate the fact that I got to say goodbye.” He felt tears stinging his eyes.

Amber's hand twined through his. “So am I.”

Wilson swallowed again. “I'm grateful. I'll admit that. But...that still doesn't change anything.” he rubbed the back of his neck again with his free hand. “With House...he helped find you because he hates not knowing what's going on. He hates forgetting things. He tried to save you because it was a puzzle, and because he hates not having all the answers. It wasn't...to be kind. He probably only agreed to the protective hypothermia because it gave him more time. Not because I asked him. He just wanted more time to find the answers.”

Amber tilted her head, regarding him with that too-serene, too-knowing look. “Do you really think that?”

He considered a moment. “Yes. Yes I do.” he shook his head, a slightly bitter smile on his lips. “House never does anything without an ulterior motive.”

“He risked his life.” Her eyes held his, and he had to look away from them, from the half-whispered doubts that were starting to form.

He snorted. “House risks his life for anything. Hell, he electrocuted himself just to see if he could induce a transcendental experience once. He overdoses on Vicodin on a regular basis. That's not exactly a measure of anything.”

“True. But that isn't everything.” She leaned forward, catching his gaze again. “Do you really think he does everything just for answers?”

“Not just for answers no. But if it's not for answers, then it's to prove something, so he can say he's right, or just so that he can say he tried it. Or, it's something for his own personal satisfaction. Like getting ketamine for his leg, or like stealing my lunch, or anything else he does.” He sighed. “With House...it's always about House.”

“Are you sure?” He couldn't understand the emotions in her eyes, wasn't sure he wanted to. He didn't understand where the conversation was going.

“Yes.” Actually, he wasn't. But all he could think of were things House had done for his own satisfaction. There had been a few times that he had almost admired House's persistence, when he had even almost applauded the twisted moral code the man lived under, but still. He couldn't think of anything that he believed House had ever done that didn't have some advantage for House, even if it was only the advantage of saying that he'd 'stuck to his own rules'.

Amber studied his face a moment. “I guess you haven't seen everything yet.”

He huffed. “Fine. Show me one thing he's done that  _ hasn't  _ been out of self interest.”

Amber smiled.

The scene flickered, and they were on the bus again. But not the bus full of doctors and nurses. No, this bus was full of people he didn't know, and two he did. This was the bus of his nightmares.

He spun back to Amber, standing calmly beside him. His heart was pounding, dread swelling inside him. “You said this wasn't going to be that kind of dream!”

“It still isn't. Not quite.” She took his hand in hers, and his heart rate slowed marginally. “You have to watch.”

“I can't. I...I can't. I can't keep watching you...watching you...” he couldn't get the words out.

“You have to watch. This isn't about my dying, remember?” She smiled, the expression so out of place in this nightmare that it actually seemed to help. “This is about House.”

He swallowed, then managed a quick nod. At any other time, he'd have tried to force himself to wake up. But if this was what Amber wanted, even if she was just a figment of his subconscious, then he couldn't turn away. He turned back to watch the dream figures of House and Amber.

The truck hit the side of the bus. Amber's side. Just as it had every time he dreamed it. The bus skidded and rolled, the people tossed like rag dolls. He and Amber remained unaffected. House and Amber....

Amber was on the side near the ground, careening and spinning near the unforgiving pavement. Holding on for dear life. And House...

House was reaching for her. Even as he watched, House reached across the gap, straining, fighting. Locked fingers around Amber's hand and held on.

He spun back to the Amber beside him, eyes wide. “I wasn't on the bus. There's no way I can say this is real. This is...pure speculation! A figment of my imagination, trying to...to forgive him, or something.”

“Not quite.” She tilted her head. “You read the reports. You know this is how it happened.” She reached up and tapped his forehead with one finger. “Think about it.”

Reports. The accident reports. The medical reports on House and Amber. He'd read them all until he'd nearly memorized the words. For House, trying to find out what injuries he had besides the brain damage. For Amber, looking for mistakes, for clues, before and after her death. The EMT and accident reports, looking for an idea of what happened, because as a doctor, and as House's friend, he was obsessed with the details. He'd even gone to talk to the First Responders, the firefighters and EMT's that had been on the scene.

A fragment of the medical reports came to mind. House had wrenched both shoulders. Most of the people on the bus had, trying to hold on, and he hadn't thought much of it. But...House's wrenched shoulders had been different. They'd both been wrenched outward. Like he'd been pulled in two different directions.

Like he'd been holding on to a support with one hand, and something heavy with the other.

All House had taken on the bus was his cane. It had to have been a person.

There was only one person on the bus that was close enough for him to have possibly reached. Only one person he knew that he might have even considered trying to save.

Another fragment of the report.

House had been badly bruised on one wrist. They'd had to watch that, giving him IV fluids and shots. A circular bruise pattern.

Amber had had similar bruises on one wrist.

Bruises had been so immaterial at the time that he hadn't cared, unless they interfered with an IV line or something. But put together with wrenched shoulders and positions...with all the reconstruction and considerations of the bus accident, with the memory fragments House had recounted and the reports he had heard...

House had tried to save her. Amidst all the terror and confusion of the bus crash, he had been trying to save her.

The knowledge made him feel light-headed. His hand clenched hard on his Amber's. “He...he tried to save you.”

“Keep watching. It isn't over yet.” Amber's gentle, calm voice contrasted eerily with the scene playing out before them, but he couldn't have looked away even if he wanted to.

The bus jerked, flipped, partially rolled again. House lost his grip on Amber. Lost his grip on the support he'd held onto. Fell. Cracked his skull.

Of course. He had to have fallen into something, a severe impact, to have created such a wide skull fracture. It had to have been an awkward angle too.

Amber fell near the door. The bus jarred again, and a piece of broken metal slammed through her thigh.

His heart clenched. This had been in the reports. He'd seen the injury. But watching it hurt, hurt so much.

The bus stopped. He and Amber remained upright, ghosts in a scene of disaster, surrounded by the wounded and the dying.

The Amber of his dream, his memory, lay near the door, where he'd envisioned her ever since the paramedics had told him where they'd taken her body from. House lay a few feet away, where he'd fallen and cracked his skull.

Then House stirred. Moved. Moved, and shifted his body over to Amber. Amber, laying there, metal through her leg, eyes wide and frightened.

House had told him of this. His dreams that had led to his search for the missing person. The second person dying. The one who wasn't the bus driver.

House, leaning, partially sitting, blood oozing from the wound in his head. Using Amber's scarf to tourniquet her leg.

Wilson felt his breath hitch. He'd heard, from the first responders, seen it in the reports. When they'd picked up Amber, she'd been in the first stages of shock, brought on by trauma. She'd been unconscious. Her leg had been very expertly bandaged, both to restrict blood flow, and to keep the metal from being dislodged before she could be placed in a safe environment.

One of the first responders had mentioned that she'd been next to an unconscious man, a man who had woken and wandered off the bus a minute later. A man they'd later identified as being concussed.

House. House had wandered off the bus, then stumbled back to it as the shock wore off.

But only someone with an extremely good knowledge of medicine could have bound Amber's leg. Only one person on the bus besides her had been a doctor.

House had mentioned his dream of the girl, whose leg he had tied with a red scarf. A girl who had mentioned she was cold. Cold was one of the first symptoms of shock.

Wilson exhaled sharply as the pieces came together. He felt suddenly weak, like he'd been sucker punched in the gut.

House. House had tried to save Amber. House had been the one to bind her wound, to minimize the blood loss and risk of dislodging the bar that had gone through her leg.

He'd been barely conscious, probably barely even able to say his own name, and he'd been trying to save her. Concussed and out of his mind, and he'd been working to stop her from bleeding to death.

There was no rationalizing it as self-interest, neither the attempt to keep her from falling, nor the emergency bandaging. House had been drunk, then too injured to think straight. There had been too much happening too fast for even House to have been thinking, finding an angle.

Wilson gasped and fell to sit, even as the scene wavered and they returned to the white bus. His convictions were shaking like leaves in an autumn wind. He barely registered it as Amber settled into the seat beside him.

It was all he could do to breathe for a few moments. Gradually, his heart stopped pounding so hard and his thoughts settled. He took a deep breath, folding his arms over the seat in front of him. “House...tried to save you. On the bus. He tried to save you.”

“Yes.” Amber's voice was still calm, and it steadied.

He swallowed, considering what it meant. Then he shook his head. “Okay. That might have been...maybe he wasn't acting out of self interest. Still...he was responsible for you being on that bus. Trying to save you when it was his fault you were there doesn't make any difference.”

“So...it has to be something completely selfless, something that has nothing to do with the actual crash?” Amber's eyes were thoughtful, serene. “If he did something else selfless, that would be sufficient?”

“Yes.” Actually, he was already shaken. But still, he wanted to see what his mind was trying to lead him to.

“All right.” Amber rose. “Come on then.”

He rose and followed her. They took a few steps, and the scene wavered, changed.

They were in House's office. A memory version of himself was standing in front of House's desk. House was sitting behind it.

He recognized the scene. He'd never forget it.

They'd determined that Amber had some form of the flu. House was resting, more or less. Amber had been scheduled for antibiotics, and then warming.

He'd been so afraid. They'd been wrong the last time they'd warmed her. He still wasn't sure. He was petrified that they'd missed something again.

He watched himself mention the possibility to the man behind the desk.  _ 'House, what if you missed something? What if...there's something you haven't remembered yet? Something else you don't know yet? Some...detail that might help, that might change things?' _

House had answered him. He'd been fairly certain he knew what had happened.

“Watch him.” Amber's soft voice admonished him.

Wilson nodded. He didn't need to see his own face, after all. He knew what he was feeling, what his expression must be showing. He moved so he could see House's face better in the dim light of the room.

_ 'Deep Brain Electrical Stimulation. We could try it. See if there's anything you missed.' _ His memory self suggested it, and he watched the House of his memories.

House looked tired. Not surprising. He'd barely slept in the past two or three days, not counting the hours he'd been unconscious as his own stubborn antics stressed or widened the damage to his skull and his brain. He'd nearly died two or three times in that time frame, had technically died at least once. Even House's resources and stamina weren't unlimited.

He watched House as his other self made the suggestion. Watched the flickers across his expression, and something dark settled in House's eyes.

He recognized that look. The look House had when he was hurt, in true pain. When his leg was unendurable. But more than that.

It was like the look he'd worn when Wilson had brushed him off during the ketamine incident. The look he'd worn when he'd folded to Tritter, though this look lacked the anger of that time. The look he'd worn when they'd all banded together to force a detox from the Vicodin to make him admit to being a drug addict.

Under the exhaustion there was the beginnings of something like betrayal in those blue eyes.

He saw House inhale, exhale slowly. Then House spoke.  _ 'You think...I should risk my life...to save Amber?' _

Time seemed to fall into slow motion, to freeze as the question rang in the quiet office. As it rang through Wilson's mind.

Why had House said that? Why ask? He'd been willing to risk his life before. He'd even been the one to suggest the deep brain stimulation before. Wilson and Cuddy had both over-ruled it as being too risky for him to try.

Why was he asking now?

For a moment, it was incomprehensible. Then...

As far as House was concerned, the puzzle had been solved. There was no need to take more risks. He knew the answer. He'd figured out the solution. Besides...he was exhausted, probably half blind with the pain in his head, and no doubt the rest of him. His body had taken a beating, his skull was cracked, and he'd worn himself far past limits that most people never even considered approaching.

As far as House was concerned, trying to force more memories was pointless. There were no more answers to be found. He knew what he'd seen. Amber had the flu.

Why ask a question? Why not just refuse?

Twelve hours before, he'd been ready, even eager to do it.

Twelve hours before, they'd told him no. Wilson had told him no.

Twelve hours ago, his best friend had argued against life-threatening procedures, had demanded he rest, had railed at him for being a fool and nearly killing himself looking for answers.

Realization trickled through him, like ice in his blood.

The question hadn't been about House risking his life. He'd said it before, House was perfectly willing to risk his life if he thought the circumstances warranted it. He did it on an almost daily basis.

The question had been about Wilson's choice. Whether he would ask his friend of over a decade to risk something that would most likely end in death or permanent brain damage, for the marginal, almost impossible possibility that there was more to find out. For such slim chances that even House didn't think there was any point in pursuing them.

The icy feeling congealed in his stomach, making him feel almost sick, even in this realm of dreams, as he turned and watched his other self. Watched himself nod. Barely a hesitation. Just that quick, nod. Yes. Yes. I want to do this. Watched himself say without words that he'd made his choice. Amber over House.

Watched himself condemn a man he had known and supported and protected for over a decade to a dangerous and potentially fatal test, just on a slim, irrational fear and hope. Watched himself choose his girlfriend of months over the man he'd long called his best friend, even if in exasperation ninety percent of the time, for so many years.

“Oh God.” He swallowed hard, and turned back to House. Saw the flicker of pain, of betrayed hurt that crossed that worn expression. Watched as House nodded slowly, almost painfully, then rose to follow him. Saw the weary, agonizing resignation in House's face, as he accepted Wilson's choice of Amber over him. Wilson's choice to let him fall, to condemn him for Amber's sake.

His hands were shaking. House...

This hadn't been about answers. House already felt he had the answer. Even if he hadn't been certain, he was so exhausted he hadn't cared. He probably wouldn't have moved until something went wrong. He'd have searched for more answers then, but in that moment, it hadn't been about answers.

There was no way this could have benefited House. He wanted to rationalize it, but the truth was, there was no way it could benefit him. The odds of his dying, period, had been too high. So had the odds of permanent brain damage. Crippling brain damage. Life as a vegetable, or trapped in his own mind.

House had only done this because he asked. Because he had begged.

It was an act of giving.

He swallowed painfully, and looked at Amber. “This...is...House...”

Amber shook her head. “It's not over yet.”

He stared. “What?”

The scene wavered and they were in the procedure room. He and Chase in scrubs and surgical gear. House in a hospital gown, strapped into the chair, his head tied into the equipment for the procedure.

He watched as Chase carefully drilled a hole in House's skull and swallowed hard. “I get it. This was selfless. I don't actually need to see this.” He remembered the questions and answers well enough. The nightmare moment that House had dashed his last hopes.

“You do.” Amber stepped up beside him, watching House in the chair as the memory-Wilson started asking House questions while Chase monitored the electrical current and insertion and House's vitals.

“Why? Okay...he did something good. I don't need to see it.” As a matter of fact, he felt slightly sick, after what he had just realized. “I was there.”

Amber smiled at him and took his hand. “Watch.”

He felt his stomach clenched, but whatever his subconscious wanted him to know, it obviously wasn't going to let him go. He turned back to the scene before him.

He listened to House stumble through the memory. Then:  _ 'No...don't.'  _ Real distress in House's voice, almost horror.  _ 'It wasn't the flu. It's what she did for it.'  _ A hesitation.  _ 'She has amantadine poisoning.' _

His own exclamation, and House's soft, painful response.  _ 'Amantadine binds to proteins. It can't be filtered through dialysis. There was no way to stop it, once her kidneys and liver stopped functioning. There's nothing we can do.' _

He wanted to wrench away as fresh pain speared through him. But Amber was holding his hand, urging him to watch, and he couldn't turn away.

House's mouth moved one more time.  _ 'I'm so sorry.' _

Air slammed from his lungs at those three words. He flinched in shock and stumbled forward, staring at the face he knew so well. 

There, on House's face. A single gleaming line tracing from one eye, sliding down his cheek. A tear.

House was crying. For Amber. For him. House was apologizing. To Amber. To him.

Then the seizure took hold of him, arching his body against the restraints, shaking him like an earthquake victim. The scene faded as he and Chase raced to save the dying man.

Wilson collapsed, falling into a seat as the white bus reappeared around them. He closed his eyes, reliving the scene again.

House had apologized to him. To Amber. House had wept for them.

He hadn't seen House cry in years. Wasn't sure could remember the last time he had.

House had come to him and asked if he'd believe an apology, if he'd believe him if he said he was sorry. He'd said no.

He hadn't realized, or remembered that House had apologized. Nor had he believed him when House had come to actually apologize later that week in his office, the night he'd left the hospital.

House's first apology had been lost in the seizure, and his grief for Amber.

Wilson took a deep, shuddering breath and put his head in his hands, the enormity of it crashing down on him.

House had willingly sacrificed himself for no other reason than because Wilson had asked. House had apologized, even though the fact that Amber had died of the flu pills wasn't his fault. Even Amber, dying in the hospital bed on bypass, had understood that. House had cried for them, expressed grief.

He'd taken House to his own father's funeral, and not seen the pain that had been present on House's face in those few brief moments.

He had been so grief-stricken, so wrapped up in Amber, that he had missed all of it. But that didn't make it less real.

He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, then raised his head to look at Amber, sitting beside him. “He cried for you.”

Amber nodded. “He did.” She leaned forward.

He swallowed again. “Why...why did you show me this?”

“Because you needed to see it. Because you need to get off the bus, and go back to him.”

“Why? Why are you asking me to go back to him? Why...all this?” he swallowed again. It was hard to talk. “I don't understand why it had to be you. Why you're supporting him.” He sighed. “The truth is...I was wondering, earlier, if he was right. If I wasn't trying to push him away to avoid losing him unexpectedly.”

Amber folded her arms, smiling serenely. “I know. That's why this is possible.”

“But why now?”

“Because now you're ready.”

He considered that statement. Was he ready?

He was. House would still be an ass. He was still a jerk, most of the time. Still selfish, self-absorbed, arrogant. But...he was House. And sometimes, sometimes...he was what was needed. House had been right, in a way. He had been pushing him away, to avoid any more loss. Of course, House was only partially right. He had associated House with loss. But now, he wasn't as sure he wanted to leave. And now, having seen the humanity in House, in this situation, he wanted to know if he could see more of it.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.” he started to rise, then stopped. “Can I...ask you one more thing?”

Amber smiled. “You can always ask.”

“You said...you did this because House got off the bus. Because you owed him. But...I don't understand what that means.”

Amber smiled. “House was on a bus too. After the seizure.”

He frowned. “House was in a coma until two days after the seizure. Until after you died.” Somehow, it wasn't as hard to say this time.

“That's right. He was on the bus. And I told him he had to get off.” She leaned on her forearms. “Actually...he offered to stay. He said that misanthropic bastards in pain should die in bus crashes, and young doctors in love trying to do a decent thing should survive. He wanted to stay because it didn't hurt, and he didn't want you to hate him.”

Wilson stared at her. “This...isn't just in my head, is it? Because there's no way I could know that.” A painful lump formed in his throat. “You...you're really Amber.”

Amber smirked. “Of course. But...it's still all in your head. This is just a little special.”

He bit his lip. “Amber...I...”

“Shh.” She laid a finger over his lips. “I already know.” The smile turned warm, loving, and she stroked his face with a gentle hand. “It's okay. You have to get off the bus for now, but I'll be waiting when it comes by your stop again, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay. I'll...see you then.” He took her hand, kissed the fingers. “I...I love you.”

“I love you too.” She freed her hand, placed it on his jaw, then leaned forward and kissed him, long and deep and gentle, like the last kiss they had shared. Then she drew away. “Go now.”

He nodded, knowing he'd never leave if he didn't now. He stood, swallowed hard. “Goodbye.” Then he turned, before he could lose his nerve, and moved toward the front of the bus.

White light surrounded him, blinded him...

Wilson woke with a start, staring at the wall of his bedroom. He took a few gasping breaths, then rolled over to stare at the ceiling.

Amber. House. Memories. A whole new perspective. House being selfless. House's tears. House's apology. House.

His lips still tingled, from that kiss shared in dreams. He had no idea how real it had been, the truth of the matter. He wasn't sure he cared, at this point.

He laid an arm over his forehead, his mind going over all the revelations he'd faced.

He had a sudden urge to apologize to House for the things he'd said and done. For what he'd asked, and never even thanked House for attempting and risking. For what he'd said, that night in his darkened office.

_ 'We aren't friends any more. I'm not sure we ever were.' _

If ever there were words he wanted to take back, it was those. However House was normally, at the worst moment of his life, House had been the truest friend he could have ever asked for. He had put his life on the line, and there was no more that anyone could ask.

He needed to speak to House. He needed to make things better. But he knew there was no way House would accept the real reason he'd come to that conclusion.

A thin chuckle rippled through him. Even the thought of telling House about the dream he'd just had was ludicrous. Neither of them would be able to bear the awkwardness. House would end up mocking him for relief, and he didn't want to deal with that.

He thought of what he'd half admitted to himself, and to Amber. That, for all it's exasperation, the trip to get House to the funeral and back had been the most interesting time he'd had in months. The most alive he'd felt in months. He wasn't sure he'd call it fun, exactly, but it had been the best he'd felt. The most free he'd felt. Even in the midst of exasperation, frustration, and outright anger...it had been refreshing, after the numb pain he'd been in, the dull struggle to find meaning and pleasure in picking up the pieces of his life. And he had been pushing House away because he associated him with pain and loss and wanted to avoid more of it. Even if House had only been half-right, he'd been right. He had been pushing him away so that he wouldn't matter as much, so that he couldn't be hurt.

House would accept it, if he told him he was right about the weekend. He didn't have to apologize. He doubted House would expect it. He knew House would have trouble accepting it, after all this time. Especially with the guilt he'd admitted to feeling. But an admission that he'd enjoyed the weekend, or that it had at least done him some good...he could work with that.

He'd chided House about the whole thing with the ear and the DNA testing, but he was curious now. That could be a conversation topic. A little conversation, a few beers.

He could do that. He and House could do that.

He needed to ask Cuddy if she'd filled his old job. He didn't have a new one, and now, he didn't want to leave.

He sighed, feeling sleepy again. He could ask in the morning. For now...he needed rest, time to let the new realizations settle in his head. Otherwise, he'd be twitchy when he faced House, and House would wonder what was wrong with him.

Looking for the humanity in House. Wilson felt the smallest of smiles on his face as he drifted into slumber.

This was going to be a challenge. It might even be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I know House is a jerk. And Wilson was grieving. But...seriously. I didn't like the way things played out with these two.


End file.
